


I Know I'll See Your Face Again

by skund



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-03
Updated: 2010-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-11 10:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/111635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skund/pseuds/skund
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For such an eloquent man, when in greatest need Sherlock does not use words. Written for [livejournal.com profile] mithen  and her random music prompt The Verve's Now the Drugs Don't Work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know I'll See Your Face Again

The clock on the mantle was loud in the stillness of the parlour. Watson had pulled off his gloves and deposited them both and his hat on the side table before he even registered the lanky form in repose on the chaise. The pale London light, filtered through the small windows, highlighted the harsh planes of Holmes’ face and got lost in the wild tangle of his dark hair. He lay as if in death, the pallid tone of his flesh causing Watson’s heart to seize.

Nothing broke the quietude of the room, save the incessant tick of the mantle clock, and Watson mentally chastised it for the affront.

He was at Holmes’ side before he even registered the thought, deft physician’s fingers at the column of Holmes’ throat. A flutter of life under his fingertips, and Watson inhaled sharply. Deep lines marked Holmes’ face and shadows haunted eyes, but life yet flowed through the man. Holmes’ chest rose slightly, and Watson’s own breath moved with it. Then his hands wandered, and he took the needle he knew would be there from Holmes’ lax hand. Holmes lacked the faculty to even protest.

Watson placed the instrument on the sidetable and fixed the crumple of Holmes’ sleeve, smoothing out the creases in the cuff. Holmes always returned Watson’s shirts in a weary state; at least it was the case with the ones Watson managed to reclaim.

The detective still hadn’t responded to Watson’s ministrations, so he let him be. Watson silently went about the room, gathering possessions to fill his portmanteau downstairs. The dogcart would arrive shortly; Waton’s cases already lined the hall in preparation. He had saved this room til the last, in a juvenile notion to delay the inevitable. Holmes had made his opinion of Watson’s imminent departure more than evident, and Watson had been expecting a fight when the time finally came. But… he looked back at the still form of his companion. This current silence was somehow worse. Watson dithered for a moment, standing in the heart of the room, then felt foolish for it. Another glance at Holmes, then Watson returned his collected items to a table and left the room without allowing himself a second look. He would return for those possessions later. Mary would permit him a momentary lapse in forgetting some necessary texts. And if Holmes had yet to regain his vigour when Watson returned, he would be the best possible assistance. Yes, that seemed quite logical. Watson was sure Holmes would approve of that course of action.


End file.
